


Third Time's Really the Charm

by AvaCelt



Category: Kamen Rider Fourze
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, M/M, non-movie compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaCelt/pseuds/AvaCelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two times he thinks he sees his former friend, one time he actually does, and twenty years worth of regret that follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time's Really the Charm

The first time, he's at a shopping center somewhere in Okinawa. The building's too cold, but outside the air is so sticky that his shirt attaches to him like a second skin, and he sweats like a pig left in its sty for too long. The icy feeling given off by the building's central air system dissipates when he catches glimpse of light brown hair gleaming warmly in sight of a set of fluorescent light fixtures. He reaches out to touch the latter's shoulder, but once he turns around, Gentaro realizes that it's not a pair of solemn eyes he's staring into, and that the stranger's definitely not Ryusei.

The second time, he's working late again with ungraded papers strewn on his table when there was supposed to be a TA to help him. But the young girl seemed just as exhausted, so he let her off, and he sits there with his glasses, his hair perfectly combed to the side with a touch of pomade, and his dignity lost somewhere in translation. The papers are on photography, and the last page of every clipped stack has a clear, colored shot of whatever the paper was referring to. He leafs through to the very end and stares at the colored glimpses of the lives of his twenty-something year olds. It reminds him of when he still had that flare, that touch that could light up a thousand skies and make even the hardest of people smile. One photo stops him short and he gasps, bringing the picture so close to his eyes that they begin to strain. He's thirty-five years old now, and he's lost his music, his sense of self, his love for cars and friends and space monkeys and everything else. Yet there's someone looking back at him that reminds him of days when there was still music, cars, monkeys, and people he could call friends. He lets his fingers thumb over the print, and he realizes that Ryusei never wore shorts for the life of him, and rarely did he smile, so the short figure with the brilliant smile and soft looks begins to look more and more like a stranger, and Gentaro assumes he probably is. They all are.

The third time, he's accompanying his art students to a beachside inn that hosts marine artifacts that he wants them to translate onto paper with nothing but black and white chalk. They gawk and demand they take pictures so they can refurbish them at their own time, but Gentaro insists the assignments will be do-and-hand-in, with thirty minutes for every still-life production. The first four assignments, and they already want his head, so on the fifth, he requests the elderly couple in charge of the inn to look after them while he steals away for some quiet time. He ends up by the rocky cliffs near the water, and does his best to keep to them, refusing to tangle his toes in the sand. He likes the harshness of the rocks. They remind him of things that changed but didn't change, of things that were as solid as they were transient. He likes the the feeling of the harsh contours digging into his flimsy sandals, and he likes the feeling of eventually having to topple over to the softness of the sand that waited below.

“Are you planning on killing yourself?”

Gentaro laughs, and it's clear and melodious, and he likes that it harmonizes with the sound of the ocean's current.

“There's sand below,” he tells the person who's peering at him from over the ledge that housed several vacation homes.

“Doesn't mean you won't break a leg- or two.”

Gentaro is thirty-five, tired, and wonders if a broken leg will get him a couple weeks to draw a few paintings of his neighbor's cat.

“I love it.”

He doesn't know what he loves, but soon, the stranger begins to climb down the rocks from the ledge. He's nearing towards him, and suddenly, Gentaro's embarrassed. He doesn't need another grown man to tell him to stop trying to kill himself. Gentaro's not trying to kill himself. He just likes permanence once in a while, and rocks were permanent yet not-so-permanent fixtures that seems to fit the mood on this particular day. Gentaro doesn't want to trouble the man, but he's already too late.

“You're old, Kisaragi,” he says. “Too old to be playing on sharp objects.”

He gawks, because his grandfather's not alive to tell him that anymore, so when he takes a good look at the stranger, he realizes that the stranger is no longer a stranger. At thirty-five, Sakuta Ryusei's aged around the eyes and chin, but his solemnity still remains. He wears a pair of cargos and button down that's not even properly buttoned. Gentaro blinks.

“I thought you went home,” Gentaro says. He's far too into his yonder years to flail and scream in surprise.

“I like to travel, so sue me,” the latter deadpans.

Gentaro feels like he should say something witty to counter, but nothing comes out. Ryusei, too, remains silent.

Eventually, the sun begins to dip, and Gentaro remembers he's a professor, and that's really brittle and old, and that he has students to get back to. Ryusei doesn't seem like he's leaving any time soon.

“Um, the inn up there,” he says, pointing at the small structure a few minutes walk away.

“I saw you check in,” the latter shrugs. Gentaro doesn't ask why.

“Would you like to meet my kids?” He asks, instead.

Ryusei takes a moment to think. Getaro thinks maybe he's asking too much on the first day of their meeting in almost twenty years. He thinks drinks would have been better. Maybe an exchange of phone numbers.

“Sure,” he says finally. “Though I doubt pastels and canvas paper will interest me much, but I guess I can endure it for a few hours.”

Gentaro thinks he can, and so they climb down the black, harsh fixtures together, and when Gentaro's sandals touch the sand, he takes them off instantly and lets his worn feet soak in the softy goodness. Ryusei side-eyes him and moves ahead, but Gentaro takes a moment to appreciate the fluidity, yet solidity of the sand that he so desperately avoided before.

When Ryusei yells at him to hurry the heck up, he thinks that maybe third time really was the charm.


End file.
